


seasonal sadness, seasonal madness

by dirtmemer



Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: A little bit of blood, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, ai is ai and ranmaru is ranmaru, bc idk utapri canon sorry, haruhana era, slightly canon divergent, the professor is also there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 10:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18689533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtmemer/pseuds/dirtmemer
Summary: Ai witnesses a man-made garden.(With regards to Ranmaru's disease, and the symptoms that come with it.)





	seasonal sadness, seasonal madness

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to be proud again recently and it made me sad because ranmaru is such a lonely person. also sgk scouting made me sad too. fuck klab! sorry i keep writing ranai i am just gay

They're paired together for a new duet album. Two people, one goal. Ranmaru crosses his arms and turns his eyes up at the ceiling. 

"How long do we need?" 

"It depends," Ai says, "on our creative process." 

"Let's say three months." Ranmaru uncrosses his arms. His gaze returns to the ground, to the earth. Whatever he's looking at on the ceiling crawls on. "Okay? Three months." 

"Sure." Ai watches the corner of Ranmaru's mouth spasm, like he's not sure if he should smile or scowl. Ranmaru keeps his mouth stretched in a line, unsmiling, but not unhappy. 

"If I get sick," Ranmaru says, "we'll have to postpone. But let's not let Reiji and Camus show us up, huh?" 

"Have you been feeling unwell?" 

"Maybe a little tickle," Ranmaru says. His expression stays blank. They stare at each other blankly. "It happens." 

It happens. A lot of things happen. Ai should take a blood sample and send it to the professor and ask for a prognosis. But Ranmaru wouldn't like that; then they'd never progress with their album. 

"Did you know," Ai says instead, "that plums and lime soothes the throat?" 

Ranmaru nods. 

"There's a spider on the ceiling," Ranmaru says. 

Ai looks at the ceiling. The spider crawls on. 

 

*

 

It comes on slowly. Their song. Ranmaru's tickle develops into a louder tickle. They sit down across from each other and scribble nonsensical rhymes onto scraps of paper. The good thing about being a technologically advanced android is that Ai has instant access to Google. The bad thing is that he is filled with hubris and knowledge. 

"We haven't worked with each other much," Ranmaru says. He kicks his foot out, catching the leg of Ai's chair. It scrapes across the floor in a little jerking motion. Ai's pencil makes a jagged line across his paper. "Oh. Oops." 

"There was that advertisement." He crumples his ruined paper into a neat little ball, and starts on a new jagged scrap. "The one with the very bright outfits. And then you had a brief cameo in the drama I starred in." 

"The one with Syo," Ranmaru nods, writing something down. "You looked cool. Sometimes you had a sword." 

"It was a period drama." 

"I had no idea," Ranmaru says, and draws a lopsided stick figure with a sword. Ai doesn't know if he's being sarcastic or humoring. When they know each other better, maybe Ai will be able to tell the tones of Ranmaru's voice apart. For now, he settles for smiling and nodding. Polite. 

"Do you have any ideas?" That's their running conversation. Do you have any ideas? Give me a word that you like. What do you like to eat? If you were the last person on earth and there was a dog right in front of you, what would you do? 

The conversation gets derailed very easily. 

"I'm thinking about lunch," Ranmaru admits. He is generally a hungry person. Ranmaru sometimes ghosts his gaze around Ai's uneaten portions politely, waiting for Ai to offer. Ai always offers. Ranmaru will smile and the furrow between his eyebrows will relax. 

"You," Ai says severely, "are always thinking about lunch." 

"Nah," Ranmaru says. The corners of his mouth curl up into a smirk. "At dinner, I'll think about dinner." 

"Ha, ha," Ai says. In this situation, he supposes he can roll his eyes. He does so pointedly. Ranmaru's teeth dig furrows into his bottom lip. He smiles the way a predator would smile: slow, unblinking. Ai presses his fingers against the wood of his pencil and returns it. Sincerely. Their slow blossoming friendship unfolds in scrap paper and silly conversations. 

"Well, this is going nowhere," Ranmaru says. He pushes his pen around on the table. It rolls, clatters, falls off the side. "Between me and you, how many lines have we written?" 

"Spiders are cool," Ai reads off Ranmaru's scrap paper. "If there was a dog, I would pet it for tactile stimulation," he reads off his own scrap paper. "I guess we've written two lines." 

"Good lines," Ranmaru says, "but I doubt that people would want to buy an album about spiders and dogs. Maybe dogs. But probably not spiders." 

"There is no accounting for taste," Ai says. 

Ranmaru smiles. He laughs, and then he coughs into his hand, sudden and violent. 

In his palm, when he pulls it from his mouth, sits a single white petal. 

 

*

 

"Who is it?" 

Ranmaru stares up at him blearily. His eyes are distant, tired. Unnoticed until now. He was laughing with Ai, and then he wasn't, and then they're sitting around their table covered with paper and there is a single petal, and. 

That's enough to make Ai nervous. It's a disease. An animal illness; there isn't a way in the world for realism in an android to duplicate such complications. Ai doesn't have the organs to cultivate emotions like a garden, but Ranmaru does, and they sit there with their backs hunched and nervous until Ranmaru pushes the petal off the table. 

"I'm sorry," Ai says, "I don't mean to pry. It's just—have you seen a doctor about this?" 

Ranmaru shrugs. He keeps his mouth shut, like he's afraid something else will fall out, fresh green and smelling of chlorophyll. Ai imagines organic growth between his own inorganic ribs and feels a little sick. Like a cancer, the plants take root and spread and threatens the host system. In the end, who knows what will happen. 

"It happens," Ranmaru says, eventually. "Been on and off ever since—well. You don't have to know that. But don't worry. It happens." 

A lot of things happen. Ai drops his pencil in misery. Beyond his calculations. Ai's system wasn't designed for medical care and plant sickness. He was here to write and dance and sing. But that can't happen if Ranmaru falls sick. If he turns into a corpse, someone will have to bite through the roots. And a corpse can't compose songs, or sing them, Ai thinks in slight desperation. He really doesn't want Ranmaru's blood curdling into chlorophyll. 

"Ranmaru," Ai says. "I want a blood sample." 

 

*

 

One week drags into two. Ai and Ranmaru don't meet, busy with their own projects: filming, posing for photos, smiling for cameras (Ai only), answering questions into microphones. 

He meets up with Syo and Natsuki. They drink iced tea and talk about their lives and their work and everything else. Ai nods and listens, eyes closing. Natsuki's cheerful chattering fills Ai's silences. He misses the concern fluttering over Syo's face. 

Syo pokes his side. "Hey! You okay?" 

Ai stirs his untouched drink. If Ranmaru were here, he'd push it over, and no one would waste anything. But his drink isn't to Natsuki's taste, and Syo doesn't like drinking from glasses other than his own. So it'll be a waste. 

"I'm fine," he answers. Ice cubes clink against glass like a melody. He thinks about it and he thinks about Ranmaru's mouth and then he thinks about perfect petals unfurling and then. 

"You don't look fine," Natsuki says, gentle. "Ai-chan, what are you thinking about?" 

"I suppose I'm a little stressed." Ai prods the conversation gently into a direction he can control. 

"Oh yeah," Syo says. He stabs his fork into his cake. "You're working on a duet album, right? Looking forward to it. Ranmaru-senpai has good music sense." 

"How is Maru-chan-senpai?" Natsuki claps his hands together. 

The words catch in Ai's throat. "He's—" sick? Caught a disease no one knows the cure to, needs medication and rest and maybe amnesia, if he's lovelorn and pining. 

"—fine," Ai finishes, eventually. He tickles his straw. It remains unresponsive, because it is a straw. "A little under the weather, the last time we met. He had a tickle." 

"A tickle?" Syo asks, fork full of cake and dangling from his fingers. 

"A throat tickle?" Natsuki asks. He steals a bite of Syo's cake, right off the fork. Syo doesn't react. Neither does Ai. They continue on with their conversation. 

"Yes," Ai says, "so we decided to work on lyrics first. But we've gotten nowhere." 

"It's okay," Natsuki says, slow and wise, "all good things take time. Like me and you and Syo-chan, we've known each other for a while. And our unit song took time to write, and it's a good song. That's why you shouldn't rush it." 

"What he means," Syo says, "is that as you get to know each other better, you'll be able to fill in the gaps to your lyrics. A duet song is an effort you shouldn't rush." Then he blinks, splutters, "N-not to imply that you and Ranmaru-senpai don't know each other well—I mean—" 

The mentor becomes the mentored. It wasn't his intention to ask for advice, but it still sparks a little flicker of pride through his synapses. "I suppose so." 

Syo nods. Natsuki smiles and drinks from Syo's glass. Syo doesn't react. Neither does Ai. 

"Another thing," Ai says, when they've paid and put on their jackets, ready to leave. "Have you—do you know anyone with the blooms?" 

Syo and Natsuki exchange a look. 

"Not in my family, no," Syo says. 

"Not in mine either," Natsuki says. "Is something the matter?" 

"No," Ai says, twisting his fingers together. Natsuki offers a friendly hand on his shoulder. Syo holds on to his elbow. Both of them have a distinctly warm touch. "No. Just curious." 

"If it's any consolation," Natsuki says, "it's usually very helpful to have a support system in place. People affected by the blooms rarely die if they have proper support." 

Syo nods. "Everyone perceives things differently. So all you can do is listen." 

Ai thinks about blood and broken leaves. Sometimes its bad and sometimes its worse. Different manifestations of the changing perceptions of love. He wonders if Ranmaru knows the cause. 

"Are we going back to your place?" Syo asks. "I wanna play that one video game you have. The one you play with Ren." 

"Of course," Ai tells him, and Syo beams. 

 

*

 

The next time they meet, it's almost been a month. Ai tucks a vacutainer into his pocket. In this situation, he'd use a 23 gauge needle. Would the growths clog the needles? He picks up a 21 gauge needle tube and tucks it into his pocket too. 

They sit at their usual table. 

"Hold out your arm," Ai tells him, as soon as they sit. 

Ranmaru shreds a stack of papers stolen from the one of the many composer studios steadily. "You gonna stick a needle in?" 

"Yes," Ai says. "I have two blood tubes." He looks at Ranmaru's unhurried nonchalance and feels a wave of slow-rising panic. Irrational. There's a bandage on his left cheek. A single strip, covering something up. 

"You don't need to worry so much," Ranmaru says. "I've had the blooms since forever." 

"You're going to root yourself." 

A slow, smiling blink. "Nothing wrong with that." 

"Ranmaru," Ai says, distressed. Ranmaru watches him and then he heaves a sigh, rolling his sleeve up. 

"Here," he grunts, thrusting his arm towards Ai. Ai holds his wrist and looks at the purpling fungus spreading through his blood vessels, like bruises. "It's gotten worse. So if it'll make you feel better." 

"This is threatening your life," Ai says. Then he pulls the tab of the 21 gauge needle packet open and twists it on the holder. 

"I won't die." 

"If it threatens your life enough," Ai says, tapping along a vein, swiping the area with an alcohol wipe, sliding the needle in, waiting for the blood to fill the tube, "you will die."

Ranmaru says nothing, just continues shredding paper, one-handed. 

"Why are you so worried?" 

Ai has no answer. He bends his head over Ranmaru's arm and ignores the question. Ranmaru acknowledges the lack of answer and doesn't say anything else. 

"Ranmaru," Ai says, eventually. He removes the needle, carefully recapping and twisting it off, dropping it into his travel-sized sharps disposal bag. "Have you tried Canesten?" 

Ranmaru's eyebrows rise steadily. It's not like Ai can suggest any human-safe herbicides. "Antifungal cream?" 

"And maybe," Ai hesitates, twisting his pack of alcohol wipes between his fingers. "Maybe alcohol wipes, too." 

 

*

 

Ai shoves the blood tubes deep into his pocket. Not the best way to store, but he can regulate his body temperature well enough to make sure nothing happens. Still, he checks it frequently, out of worry. Ai's mind flits back and forth between blood and fungus and the way Ranmaru sighs, long and loud. They sit there for an hour and get nothing done.

 

*

 

The professor is napping when Ai walks in. Ai shakes him awake, uncaring when the professor jolts and falls off his chair. 

"Professor," Ai stares down at him, "I want to test a blood sample." 

"Okay? The professor blinks up groggily. "Okay. You want me to do it?" 

Ai nods. "I want you to run a diagnosis." 

"One of your friends?" 

Ai hesitates. "No," he says. "Just a work colleague." The words feel wrong on his tongue. Bitter, like how he imagines crushed chlorophyll would taste. Maybe Ranmaru's mouth tastes like this. 

The professor nods understandingly. "Give me some time. Go recharge or something. Or cook me lunch." Shaking himself, he retrieves the blood samples and retreats into the back of his lab. 

"Okay," Ai says. There will be nothing in the professor's fridge when he opens it. He puts on his shoes at the front door. "Would you prefer noodles?" 

The machines hum. There is no answer. 

 

*

 

"So what did you find out?" 

The professor pauses in his eating. He taps his chopsticks against his chin. Ai waits patiently as he taps and taps and taps and chews on his noodles. Every tap comes with passing time. With every tap he loses a few seconds. 

"Fascinating, fascinating," the professor says. "The blooms, of course. There were slime molds in there, did you know that? Some kind of fungus, too. Have you recommended antifungals? Those are your best bet, you know." 

"Canesten," Ai nods. 

"Try Noxafil," the professor spears a piece of chicken on his chopsticks, "or even Vfend. Pill type." 

"Yes," Ai says. "Thank you, professor." 

"I'm not an expert, mind you. I majored in robotics, you know, though I did double in biology," the professor says, and sucks up another mouthful of noodles. "Try alcohol wipes to keep the affected areas clean." 

"Of course," Ai murmurs, and thinks about Ranmaru. "And a visit to a doctor, if I can make him." 

 

*

Ranmaru hates being fussed over. Ai doesn't fuss over him, but he does worry. They don't meet every day. With every passing day Ai wonders if the growths are sinking further into Ranmaru's flesh, becoming its own foreign solitary ecosystem. Absorbed into whatever it stems from, a garden of obsession. 

 

*

 

"I have something to show you." 

Ranmaru, grim and determined, his grip on Ai's wrist shockingly unfamiliar. Syo and Natsuki are warm but Ranmaru is sun-hot, overworked computer-hot. He smells vaguely floral, vaguely like shampoo, vaguely like he walked to the agency without bothering with sunscreen even though its mid summer. 

"What is it?" 

"Toilet." Ranmaru drags him along hallways, passing a startled Ren and a cheerful Otoya. His palm is humid, a bit sticky against Ai's skin. He doesn't look sick, but Ai watches the way he holds himself and thinks, really, that Ranmaru isn't very good at pretending. 

In the toilet he's gently herded into a cubicle. Suspicious, but there's no one around to see. Ranmaru shrugs off his shirt, a thin button-up, long-sleeved, and he says, "See?" 

They're standing very close. The cubicle doesn't have room for anything else. But under the dim light, Ai sees bruises on his skin. Under his skin. Vein-shaped and lung-shaped, fanning out across Ranmaru's torso, down his arms. 

"What did the doctor say?" Tremblingly, his fingers reach out to brush the shapes. A lonely cap, blooming beneath Ranmaru's collarbone. Ranmaru's intake of breath is shudderingly graceful. 

"Didn't go," Ranmaru grunts. Eyes sliding closed, back to wall facing Ai's front. Ai presses back against his own wall, gathering Ranmaru's shirt up so it doesn't drag onto the ground. Ai traces a vein, follows it with his finger. 

"You need to see a doctor," Ai tells him. 

"It started when I was young." Ranmaru's voice is gravel-rough. Like he's choking on stems and leaves, scraping up the insides of his throat. "Mom told me she hated me. And I started puking up leaves." 

He leans forward. Rests his palms on each side of Ai's head, gaze solid and steady. "Got better after I got used to living alone. On the streets, on a couch. Whatever got me through the night." He smells sickly, rot-sweet. Ai resists the urge to stop breathing, pulling his hand away from Ranmaru's chest. 

"Don't stop," Ranmaru says, almost an edge of a whine. "Don't stop. It feels better. Stops feeling bad and sick." 

"It's spreading," Ai says, shaky with horror. Organic and lovely under his fingertips, inside Ranmaru's organs. He lays his hand across Ranmaru's collarbone; Ranmaru sighs and chokes and hacks out a leaf, crumpled with spit. He drops it into the toilet bowl. 

"Had a girlfriend," Ranmaru mumbles. His head droops like a wilting flower. "Had a girlfriend. Was so bad at fucking her that she went to fuck someone else. In our apartment. Got worse after that. Had to chew through my roots. Hurt so bad I thought I died." 

So he's already rooted himself, Ai thinks with clinical interest. He wonders what it looked like. What kind of love was it? What did it cultivate in Ranmaru? A tree, a bed of flowers, curling vines? Or maybe everything and more. Fungus and moss and mold, like now. He thinks about mushrooms on Ranmaru's skin. Mold crawling sluggishly through his veins. Biofilms in his lungs, over his diaphragm. 

He thinks about Ranmaru biting through the roots of his garden alone, severing his anchors, and then he feels sick from thinking about it. 

Ai closes his eyes. Caged in Ranmaru's slack hold. Line after line of awful clawing truths, tipping their already uneven scale. Ranmaru baring his soul and pulling out memories, grimly weeding his cultivated growths. 

"Got better after I did some stupid shit," Ranmaru whispers, inches away from Ai's throat. "Got better when I was performing, when I was playing my bass. Moving on with life." 

Ai knows the rest. Body against his, Ranmaru's breath hot against his skin. So close. Ranmaru's sickness, getting better, getting worse. It's a burden of body and mind. Ai strokes Ranmaru's skin and wonders if it's wrong to want to offer comfort. Wonders if it's wrong to want Ranmaru's mouth. 

"They left," Ranmaru moans, clawing at the wall. "I want them back, but I'll never have them again." He turns his head, spits out fingers of green moss, an outburst. Ai wipes the corners of Ranmaru's mouth for him, aching and gentle. Why him? Why now? 

He looks at Ranmaru and wants him and doesn't understand why. 

"When I first saw you," Ranmaru says. He's laughing and then he's not. "Wanted to put my fist in your gut. You, Reiji. Camus especially. Then I stopped wanting that, and just wanted to get to know you. Wanted to talk to you." 

Ai looks at Ranmaru and wonders how a single person can be so unapologetically lonely. Unrestrained, gnawing, inescapable. 

"When this album is done," Ranmaru says, starved out of his mind, for touch or for intimacy or just for someone to listen, "we'll go our separate ways again and I'll have nothing." 

He thinks he understands now. Ranmaru hates Camus. Gets along with Reiji if he tries, but Reiji is always fixated on something else, someone else, ghosts of his memories. Maybe Ranmaru wants the same thing. A way to crush the seeds of loneliness, weed out the bad, keep the good. Kindred spirits. 

He twines his fingers in Ranmaru's hair. Brings his palms to cup Ranmaru's jaw, gently. 

His first taste of intimacy is in Ranmaru's mouth. Spit-slicked, moss-stained. 

 

*

 

They go to the doctor together. A friend of the professor's, a woman with a tired smile and wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. 

She asks questions. Some that Ranmaru answers himself, some that Ai answers for him. She nods and types something into the patient records and recommends the same things the professor recommended. 

Ranmaru rolls his eyes and mutters, "Waste of time," under his breath rudely, but he stomps away to the medication counter anyways. 

The doctor asks Ai one last question, watching Ranmaru stomp away moodily. "Do you know the cause?" 

Ai nods. He watches Ranmaru too. Watches Ranmaru turn his head to cough into his hand. 

"Good," the doctor says. "You know, a garden always grows better when its cultivated by two." 

Ai nods, but he doesn't understand the analogy. 

 

*

 

"Wouldn't it be funny," Ranmaru says, peeling the bandage off his jaw. A tiny blue flower slips out, landing on his lap. He doesn't finish his sentence, turning the flower between his fingers. Contemplating something. Ranmaru takes his antifungal pills and lets Ai scrub his face with alcohol wipes, but the plants still grow. 

"What would be funny?" Ai prompts. 

"Oh." Ranmaru blinks. "Wouldn't it be funny if our duet song was about flowers?" 

It wouldn't, Ai thinks. 

"Maybe," he says instead. "Something about spring. Changing seasons." 

Ranmaru flicks the flower away. "Loneliness," Ranmaru continues, "and music." 

They look at each other. They don't talk about the kiss. 

"Hey, there's a concept," Ranmaru grins. He inspects his hands. "Grass really can grow anywhere, huh." 

Ai catches his wrist. Sees uneven cuticles and the tiniest blades of grass. There are hints of teeth marks, scraped along skin. 

"Stop biting yourself," Ai tells him disapprovingly. 

"Yeah, yeah," Ranmaru waves him off. "I'll find a pair of clippers next time. Take off my fingers with 'em and start growing stems out of my wrists." 

It's sarcasm. Ai can tell now. Ranmaru always looks to the left when he's being sarcastic. 

"Well," Ai says, squeezing down on Ranmaru's wrist. "When that day comes, I'll miss your fingers." 

 

*

 

Two months drag by. They make progress, lyrics half-finished. They start twisting sounds together, snippets of hummed melodies. Ranmaru steals an acoustic guitar from some poor composer and they sit and sing together. 

It's cathartic. Sometimes they sit in chairs and sometimes they lie on the ground. Ranmaru plays the guitar well. He admits that he doesn't like the acoustic guitar much, but he still plays it, grim like a child doing their homework with the promise of a new toy dangled above their head. 

Sometimes Ranmaru turns his head to cough. Ai politely averts his gaze. Ranmaru hacks up anemones, pale purple and perfect. Pulls them out of his mouth and chokes on breathing. His voice is rougher when he sings. Raspy, choking on emotion. Ai pats him on the back, arm curled across his shoulders. 

"What do you think love is like?" Ranmaru asks, suddenly. 

"Chemicals," Ai says. "Timeless. Undying. At least until your body stops working. But to the end, chemical signalling stays the same. The rush of neurotransmitters. The happy swell of endorphins and dopamine and serotonin." 

"Timeless, huh," Ranmaru repeats. "I like the sound of that." 

He picks an anemone from his pile. The biggest one, the brightest one. Pretty, faintly sweet smelling. Ranmaru reaches out, tucks it behind Ai's left ear. It's still spit-slicked. Disgusting. 

"Suits you," Ranmaru says. He coughs again. Stems growing from his mouth, crushed under his teeth. Anemones in his mouth. Anemones under his skin. He bleeds when one opens up a cut along his arm, pushing up, pushing out. His blood and bone as soil. 

He leans in. Ranmaru tastes like bitter greenery and the tang of oxidization. 

 

*

 

Time passes. 

Ranmaru gets better and Ranmaru gets worse. They pass the initally agreed on three month mark. Ai brings clippers and helps with the growths; he clips stems and chops at vines and trims away thorns, anything that could possibly hurt. They spend endless amounts of time together, and Ai finds himself worried and wondering why he cares. 

The answer is maybe this: he wants to sing with Ranmaru. 

That's the answer he gives when Ranmaru asks, lips tickling the skin of Ai's wrist. Ai holds the clippers steady and cuts through cellulose inches away from Ranmaru's trusting pulse. 

"Could be anyone," Ranmaru replies. 

"We wouldn't be Quartet Night without you," Ai tells him. "And singing with anyone else wouldn't be the same." 

Ranmaru smiles and vomits up a mushroom in all its fungal glory. Ai makes him wash out his mouth afterwards. 

 

*

 

"Think of it this way," Ranmaru says, mouth open around a thin branch of Salix blossoms. "I'm sick, but it's really not that bad." 

Ai twists his hand around the branch. He misses the fuzzy catkins of spring. Summer blossoms are pretty, but they're not the same. 

"When I pull this out," Ai tells him, "I might shred your throat." 

"Nothing that rest and a lot of water can't heal." Ranmaru is nonchalant. He is always nonchalant about these things. Big, important, dangerous things. "I'm like a walking florist shop. Maybe I should start selling these." 

"You never take care of yourself," Ai says. Slight frustration in his tone. He reels it back, packs it neatly into a corner of his mind. He'll question himself later in solitude. "I don't think anyone would want flowers covered in spit and blood, anyways." 

Ranmaru is silent. Ai twists the branch, trying to shake the roots loose. When he pulls it free, Ranmaru gags and spits, but there's no blood. Ai still checks. Slides his fingers into Ranmaru's mouth, pulling it open. A brief scan, confirmation that Ranmaru is still medically sound. The scrape of Ranmaru's teeth against his skin. 

Ai tosses the branch to the floor. Ranmaru presses his lips against Ai's wrist. 

"Thanks," Ranmaru says, and then later when they're both curled up on the floor a safe distance from each other he says, eyes half-lidded, smiling, "Maybe I want someone else to take care of me." 

 

*

 

Ai doesn't think about it until he's alone. 

Later, when he's stacking the professor's notes and tools in haphazard piles, he thinks about Ranmaru and what he confesses in their time alone, lazy and relaxed and trusting. Plants blooming under his skin. He shuffles papers together and misses Ranmaru's bitter chlorophyll scent. 

It's surprising. It's a surprising weakness. He's just technology, advanced and artificial, but only with half the control. He has to learn like everyone else. Has to start from zero, stumble and make mistakes, humble himself to be less than truly exceptional. But still his impulses remain as something out of reach, impossible to understand. He is filled with want just like everyone else. 

Ai overheats. Processors overload with too much information, too much digging into his own mind. Too much, not enough. The professor drags him across the lab to ice him and knocks over all his delicately stacked piles. 

"You made me weak," he says to the professor, as he's lifted into the tub. It sounds like an accusation. "My chest hurts. My head hurts. I don't understand anything and it's your fault." 

The professor laughs. He ruffles Ai's hair; goes to light a cigarette. When he exhales slowly, the smoke curls around him like fog. "Yes," the professor says, amused. He stares down at Ai, sitting on his chair. Playing god. "I made you human." 

 

*

 

The next time they meet is the last time they meet. Duet song finished, looking to put some final touches on it. It'll be a friendly meeting, Ai can check up on Ranmaru, and then they'll go their separate ways. Except that when Ai walks into the room where Ranmaru sits and waits for him, bouncing his knee anxiously, Ranmaru looks decidedly terrible. Bruises under his right eye, bruises on his knuckles. He worries his lip, chewing on flesh and vegetation. 

"Did you get into a fight?" 

"I missed you." Ai is swept into a tight embrace. Ranmaru smells like leaves and stale sweat. "I might have punched Camus. It's okay though. He punched me back. Got my eye. I got bruises, see?" 

"Don't punch Camus," Ai says, slightly dismayed. He presses his thumb under Ranmaru's eye; Ranmaru hisses and doesn't shrink back. His fingers clench on Ai's hip. 

"Who cares about Camus!" A tinge of desperation. Ranmaru breathes out a rattling sigh; spits out bits of chewed up vines. "Who cares about him. I missed you." 

"You've gotten worse," Ai says. Ranmaru sucks in a shaky breath when Ai reaches up to touch his jaw, chases Ai's touch like an attention starved cat and pretends he's not wet around his eyes. "Oh. I'm sorry. I should have checked on you earlier." 

"No," Ranmaru says. "No, I—" 

His wrists are wrapped in bandages. Ai unwraps them, examines the budding stems growing out from his veins. Young and tender green. An attempt at a hostile takeover of the host body by the disease, sweet-smelling and dangerous. Ai wonders if Ranmaru's been dealing with this on his own and aches. He's a creation of logic, first and foremost, but sometimes he also wants things for himself. Maybe that's allowed. 

Ai thinks about logic and public perception and thinks, fuck it all, really, he's allowed to be selfish for once. 

"When they grow," Ai says, "I'll clip them for you." 

Ranmaru looks deeply surprised. "What?" 

"I'll take care of your growths," Ai repeats, cupping Ranmaru's head between his palms. The skin of Ranmaru's ear is soft, sun-hot. Hair like dandelion fluff. "I'll clip your thorns. Chew through stems if I have to." 

Ranmaru narrows his eyes, considering. "Not scared I'll infect you?" he says, eventually. 

"You can't infect something inorganic with an organic disease," Ai says, smiling. He pulls Ranmaru down for a kiss, chaste and quick. "I'm very safe. Bloom-proof." 

"You mean—" 

"I mean," Ai looks at Ranmaru's slack expression, "I'm an android. And I'll still be around when you die. I can take care of you until then." 

Ai can't read any emotion in Ranmaru's face. Then Ranmaru leans forward and their lips meet, kissing tongue deep, sloppy and excited, tasting like grass. 

"That was kinda creepy," Ranmaru admits, when they've pulled away from each other, "but also kinda hot. Are you sure?" 

Ai kisses Ranmaru's jaw. He sings their song, quietly, finally complete. Ranmaru's hands go to his waist, holding on. He joins in later, low and satisfied, a counter to Ai's high melody. A perfect fit. They exhale and exist in the moment together.

**Author's Note:**

> haruhana is a good song 
> 
> my utapri tumblr:  yeet


End file.
